


Revelations

by vetiverite



Series: Revelations [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Amazing Linane Art, Art, Artist's Life, Collaboration, Domestic Bliss, Durin AU, Durin's Day, FiKi Durin's Day 2019, Heavy Nesting, Light Dirty Talk, M/M, Mutual Pining, hobbit au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-08 02:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21228206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite
Summary: Fíli is a struggling artist in the city, working as an assistant for a more established artist in exchange for experience, low pay and rather unusual living arrangements.  He attends life drawing classes, for which he has very little enthusiasm... until a spectacular model strolls into the classroom.Kíli is a beautiful mystery. Maybe a dancer, maybe a whore... definitely an artist.  When he’s not posing with perfect concentration, he’s roaming the classroom checking out everyone’s progress.  He's got an eye for artistic talent... and he's got his eye on Fíli.





	Revelations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linane/gifts).

> A collab between Vetiverite & Linane for Gathering FiKi's Durin's Day Challenge 2019. This has been a life-lifting experience and that ain't no lie. 
> 
> Side note: Aragorn, Arwen, and Galadriel are in here, just not named as such.
> 
> Hint: Click on the images to see them in full size!

Fíli had his reasons for sleeping in a bathtub. He listed them in his sketchbook during a bout of insomnia brought on by… well, sleeping in a bathtub.

_…Steady work. Windows. Light. The smell of raw canvas, wood stretchers, gesso. Knowing exactly what to do with them. A good boss who lets me sleep here rent-free. IN THE CITY! Three good shawarma stands w/in walking distance & a bodega that carries my favorite beer. Safety. Shelter. A place to lay my head. So what if it’s uncomfortable. I’m HERE. I’m lucky. Really really really lucky…_

He repeated this mantra every night before climbing into his claw-footed bed.

* * *

Fíli’s room took up the west corner of Strider’s sixth-floor studio. Measuring just six by eight, it housed a working toilet, a half-working sink – cold water only – and the tub, a porcelain boat unmoored and floating on a sea of drywall rubble. It was all Strider had to offer. He did so without irony or shame.

_…look, the tap runs. You can wash yourself AND your clothes at the sink-- two birds with one stone, am I right? Hang your coat on that pipe and your hat on another. I’ll give you a few old stage flats to prop around the john, if you’re feeling shy. And hey, the radiator works. Can’t beat that!_

Come chilly November, Fíli had to agree. And really, he was lucky.

Kíli disagreed. One look around and all he said was, _Nope._ And that was the last time Fíli slept anywhere but in Kíli’s bed.

* * *

Today is Sunday. There’s nowhere to be, so naturally they’ve elected to sleep in, though neither of them are sleeping. They’re all wound up in soft flannel sheets and each other— but if you think that prevents Kíli from fidgeting, you’re mistaken. He wriggles this way and that, seeking pockets of untapped warmth; he stretches like a puma and toys with Fíli’s mustache as if he’s never seen anything like it before. Even lying down, he’s on the move.

_But you adore that about me,_ he says, reaching up to untangle Fíli’s necklace from his hair.

_I adore it NOW,_ laughs Fili. _Back then, not so much._

_I know._ Kíli flops around to face the wall and backs himself up against Fíli, jostling them both until the mattress springs protest. _You liked things that stayed still._

* * *

[](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/177581/177581_original.png)In his first year at Strider’s studio, Fíli had a hard-on for inanimate objects. Valves and pipes shedding flakes of old paint. Ductwork leading everywhere and nowhere. The radiators, strangely ornate. The fire alarm bell bolted to the wall. Jars full of brushes. His own canvas pliers lying in the sun.

He drew and painted all of these, and when he was done, he descended to the basement. There he discovered the furnace – a 1908 Bigelow of monstrous size – and a muck-encrusted antique typewriter. He couldn’t sit and sketch the former on account of the rats, so he settled for the latter. It cleaned up nicely, and he set about documenting its gears and screws, their poetry silenced by rust. They reminded him of clockworks, which reminded him of machinery, which put him onto antique tools. He scoured neighborhood junk shops for drop-forged pipe wrenches and tin snips, dragging home enough to open a shop of his own.

The point was to stick to things that _stayed put._

The human form is unreliable, you see. It shifts, bends, tilts, changes position; it quivers and pulses and heaves with life. It never truly rests, no matter how still and quiet it tries to be. It comes into sight, into your life, into your heart, and just when you think it’s settling in, it breaks the pose and walks out…

_(Have I ever?_ asks Kíli.

_No, you have never,_ replies Fíli. _And neither will I.)_

In the end, it was Strider who broke Fíli’s moping streak.

_You spend too much time dicking around with typewriters and tools,_ he’d informed Fíli. _Time to pick another subject, even if it makes you uncomfortable. ESPECIALLY if it makes you uncomfortable._ He clapped his sullen assistant on the shoulder. _Next life-drawing session’s tonight at six. Fees are on me. Now get the fuck out of here._

That’s how Fili found himself in a classroom on Canal Street, sucking his teeth and waiting for inspiration to show up.

Which it did. Twenty minutes late, already pulling its shirt off as it burst through the door.

* * *

Fíli calls Kíli _The Tornado_ because he covers more distance and kicks up more dust than anyone Fili’s ever met. The nickname swirled to the surface of his mind the very first time he… well, you don’t _meet_ Kíli. You take him like a punch to the jaw, and then you haul yourself up off the floor wondering, _What the everloving _fuck?

As Fíli watched in a state verging on panic, this spectacular creature hot-tailed it to the dead center of the room, struck the exact pose of Cellini’s Perseus only with his shirt instead of Medusa’s head in hand, opened his fingers and just… let the garment drop.

_Kíli, please, _objected Gala, the drawing instructor. _We’ve discussed this._

Kíli either didn’t remember or didn’t care. Week after week, it played out the same. _KEEEEE-LEEEE!_ arose a roomwide cheer, and around the ring of artists he’d shimmy, kissing cheeks, trailing shucked garments behind him like a burlesque queen.

_Every entrance a show-stopper, _remembers Fíli. _What a spectacle you were._

As if Kíli – flushed and trembling under Fíli’s hands – isn’t one now.

_You loved it,_ he retorts. _You pretended you didn’t, but I saw you blush every time. You—ahhh! Fíli! FUCK—_

_Stay still._ Fili knows he’s demanding the impossible, but they both appreciate the challenge.

Kíli requires a firm hand. He cannot completely master his irrepressible lust for life; it constantly threatens to capsize him. He needs assistance. Fíli gives it in the form of gentle directives: _Slow down, careful, love, remember your keys, eat something, wait for the WALK signal, come to bed. _Right now _it’s breathe, love, sssh, be quiet, be still for me, so still, that’s it, now let go, let go and come for me, yes, yes love, come._ The fun for them both is seeing whether Kíli will comply or fall into shivering pieces, technicolor curse words dripping from his lips.

But it’s different during a session. Once Kíli brings himself to the pose, nothing short of an earthquake can budge him. He goes from hummingbird to Zen monk in less than an eyeblink. He can change position every two minutes, forcing one’s pencil to jitter over the page; then he’ll sit motionless for an hour, seeming not even to breathe while you look your fill.

_He’s a dream,_ purrs Gala. _Completely flexible and submissive. You can move and bend and adjust him to your heart’s delight, tell him to stay, and he STAYS. What a divine bottom he’d make— any top would count themselves lucky._

That’s Kíli in all his chiaroscuro glory. He strives so hard to obey, disintegrates so joyfully when he can’t, and when you least expect it, suddenly he’s in complete control. If he’s in a stubborn mood, he’ll allow you rough sketches, nothing more; a fleeting vision, a tiny taste.

But he stays with you. You’re grateful for what you happen to capture; you find yourself flipping back through pages of memory, seeking the light and shadow you saw.

* * *

[](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/178511/178511_original.png)Ever since they came together, Fíli’s never had to look far for Kíli’s light. But in the early days, he only felt taunted by shadow. Remembering earlier promises broken by others less bright, he held himself stiffly apart from Kíli— never more fully than when critique time came around. Dashing and dodging, a faded sarong hastily knotted around his hips, Kíli lunged over people’s shoulders to point out bits he liked, or ones he thought in need of rethinking.

_You see this, here? You have to remember that bones and muscles aren’t isolated. Everything’s connected, everything works together. Whatever shape you see is the result of all of this –_ he gestured at his own body – _DOING something. It’s never just standing there; it’s never really still. If I move even half a millimeter, this bit here changes. Here; put your hand on it and feel me breathe. You get it?_

_So vain,_ Fíli fumed that first time. But as The Tornado whirled closer, he unconsciously sat up straighter.

Kíli paused behind Fíli and leaned in. An escaped strand of hair from his messy bun brushed Fíli’s cheek. He smelled of amber oil and kitchen spices, caraway and clove and allspice. For a long moment he studied the lines and planes Fíli’s pencil had captured, and he said nothing. Not a word.

But as he withdrew – _on to the next!_ – he stroked the nape of Fíli’s neck once, a lingering touch, as if to say _Hello_, or _Yes_, or maybe even (was it a dream?) _Later_.

That night, hunkered by the radiator, Fíli completed the drawing he had begun in class. With the last stroke, he drew back and stared down at the image as if it was the work of a stranger's hand. 

Then he flung the spent pencil aside, snatched up a new one, and proceeded to draw Kíli fourteen ways from memory, breaking only when the square of his window changed from cold white streetlight glow to rosy-fingered dawn, just like in old poems.

* * *

The thing about open drawing nights is that they’re the classic mixed bag. Anyone can attend— every day if they want, or once and never again, no questions asked. The same applies to the models; they come and go according to unfathomable whims. A renowned guest model might decide on pure caprice to extend their stay another week. A mediocre model might try and try, refusing to give up until they do it right. A one-nighter might go down in legend as the greatest (or worst) of all time. Everyone accepts it. You get what you get.

Most of Gala’s models are ballet dancers, yoga instructors, athletes; there’s even one who teaches capoeira to middle-schoolers at the Y. Kíli is Kíli—that’s his only credential. So far he’s been read every riot act and still wriggled free of every rule. He runs late. He talks back. He requires frequent reminders about classroom protocol _(complete silence during a session, robes worn at all times except when on the dais). _During the parts ungoverned by etiquette, he’s a one-man circus, all over the place until Gala harrumphs and taps her wristwatch.

The older artists find it unseemly that she even permits such a thing. Yet she says he’s one of her best, and she should know, having seen him at his worst.

_Fine artist, terrible pupil:_ such was her assessment. _A real nightmare. Defiant, unfocused, disruptive to the rest of the class._

_If I’m so lousy at sitting behind a sketchpad, let me get out in front of one instead,_ retorted Kíli.

_Are you joking?_ Gala snapped. _YOU? Model?!_

_Try me,_ Kili shot back.

That was seven years ago.

_He does more than pose. He stirs up esprit de corps among the students, _Gala says. _He inspires them to draw, to learn— what more can you ask for?_ She chuckles. _And late though he may be, he never, ever misses a session._

After a while, neither did Fili.

Kíli began to look for him at the start of every class. From the way he lit up – a hundred watts of surprise and delight – you’d think they’d been pals for years. He appeared to savor the few moments of real eye contact he could wring from Fíli each evening, before the veil of concentration descended over them both. Afterwards, he’d linger over other students, side-eyeing Fíli all the while, watching for a reaction.

_(Seducing me,_ teases Fíli.

But Kíli draws himself up taut and dignified. _No,_ he primly replies. _Courting you.)_

Once he wended his way over, he’d peruse each of Fíli’s sketches closely, carefully. They never spoke. Sometimes that hurt Fíli, who yearned for Kíli’s voice, a gift seemingly given to all except him. But one could also argue that Kíli gave no one else his quiet.

Kíli always touched Fíli, every time. On the arm, on the nape of his neck, once – so fleeting, he questioned whether or not he’d imagined it – just behind his ear. Every time different. But still, every time— which made it better, and also worse.

Clearly, Fíli wanted Kíli. To watch, to draw, to talk to, to touch. Oh, to touch. He’d taken time to come to it, but no more room for denials remained. He wanted Kili so much he could hardly occupy the same room without wanting to hide. But people don’t schlep all the way down to Canal Street only to lock themselves in a bathroom.

Especially when they already live in one.

* * *

As autumn trudged its way toward winter, Fíli’s bathtub felt bigger, emptier, colder. Convincing himself that porcelain-lined cast iron leeches body heat away, he layered more blankets above and below as an antidote to chill. But no quick fix proved sufficient to insulate him from the notion that he was doing life all wrong.

_No, you’re not._ Strider never sounded like more of a New Yorker than when he was being dismissive: _No ya NAAAHHHT. Ya waking UP. Ya gotta expect the light to hurt your eyes. Just focus on one thing at a time, and soon you’ll see everything clear._

Fíli applied Strider’s remedy to his most immediate hurt. Of course the light hurt his eyes. For weeks, he’d been staring directly at the sun.

Taking in Kíli one feature at a time felt safer, easier, less overwhelming than taking him as a whole. Fíli dosed himself in increments, peppering the margins of his drawing pad with small, detailed portraits. A pair of bright eyes surmounted by dark winged brows. A hand, strong-tendoned, with slender fingers flexed. A face alone, suffused with childlike elation, but bodiless.

He absorbed as much as he could handle until the habit took root.

Extended-pose night was a safe haven. Then he could look and look and look, glutting himself on Kíli’s beauty without fear of exposure. A full-body vignette of Kíli from that period gave proof of his adoration. The eyes, sleepy and faraway. The lips, parted, shiny from a clandestine lick. The sleek-muscled torso; the dark hair that boldly led the eye from nipples to navel and down, and down…

That sketch paired with his own hand gave Fíli keen satisfaction for many nights running. He imagined Kíli on his back, stroking himself at the same pace; the two of them panting and moaning in tandem. It was enough to push him over the edge each time. Alone in the empty building, he cried his pleasure out loud – a small gift to himself, curiously decadent – and imagined the echo to be Kíli’s own pleasure replying from clear across town.

That sketch, he showed no one, not even Strider.

* * *

_I wish I’d known you were an artist like all of us._

_What did you think I was?_ Kíli’s sitting up now, sheets pooled about his waist. He resembles nothing short of a siren rising above the seafoam, poised and imperious as he waits for Fíli’s answer.

It comes from under the blanket. Fíli doesn’t dare show his face as he speaks these words: _A stripper._

_That’s courteous of you._ Kíli’s voice is icy. _Most people would just say whore._

Fíli comes out of hiding to stroke the small of his lover’s back. _Noooo, baby, not that._

After a moment of solemn consideration, Kíli wriggles to put more of himself in the way of Fíli’s hands. _What made you think I shake ass for a living? _he teases. _Not to be egotistical; I’m just curious. Was it the rhythm of my hips?_ He blinks, wrinkles his brow. _Hold up, was I wearing my Moroccan coin belt that night?_

_No. I’d have remembered that. _Laughing, Fíli slides his hands around to stir up the thick fur on Kíli’s chest and belly. _Mmmmm. Thank god you’re not a stripper; you’d have to shave yourself clean._

_Not on your life!..._ Kíli stretches within Fíli’s arms, hissing on the inhale. _But you were saying._

_There’s just… There’s a confidence about you that some dancers have. You’re not ashamed._

_Should I be?_

_Lord, no._ Fíli plants a kiss between Kíli’s shoulder blades. _I love that you don’t give one solitary fuck what anyone makes of you. You paint scenes of factory fires and bake your own bread. You pair your grandfather’s dog tags with daisy hair clips and combat boots. You blast Rasputina on your stereo and sing to the sparrows on the fire escape. Do you remember when you saw that one bird that came by itself, all alone, and you cried? That’s you. You’re soft and strong, and you don’t apologize—_

_Won’t,_ corrects Kíli. _Can’t._

_—and you’re a gorgeous hairy beast who rocks a Moroccan coin belt like nobody’s business._ Another kiss. _You’re exactly as you were made to be, and that’s what calls me to you._

_Ah!_ Kíli twists around. His voice matches his eyes, soft and wondering. _You saw that in_ me, _but you never saw it about yourself,_ he tells Fíli. _You’re lucky you have me to do the looking._

_You DO look._ Fíli turns away, groping for his water bottle. _None of the other models do. They’re happy just being stared at; otherwise they pay the students no mind. But you meet everyone’s eyes. You take an interest in the students’ work, and not only that, you_ critique it! _I appreciate it now, but when I first met you I thought, What gives HIM the right?_

Kili grows solemn. When he speaks again, it’s in what Fíli calls his _Old Soul Voice,_ resonant and thoughtful.

_Have you ever heard of ‘custody of the eyes’? It’s this old religious recipe for avoiding temptation: don’t look. If just SEEING might cause you to sin, turn away— or else tear out the offending eye._ Kíli pauses, gathering words. _I think that’s why artists are so often branded as heretics. We DON’T turn away. We refuse NOT to see. It IS our right. _Mirth dimples the corners of his mouth. _And some of us model on the side, just to tempt the saints._

_Oho,_ said Fíli, passing Kíli the water bottle. _Is THAT what the coin belt is for._

* * *

In the end, Kíli didn’t so much tempt Fíli as trap him.

One icy late-November night, he blew into class looking like the plague— nose dripping, lips chapped, eyes fever-glazed. _Ugh, I can’d geddit UP tonide,_ he honked. _I’m sidding out._ Then he marched straight over and dumped his messenger bag down at Fíli’s feet. _Take by place?_

_(Well, you’re always so incredibly still when you’re working,_ Kíli reminds Fíli. _I figured you’d be a natural Why were you so shocked?_

Fíli’s head dipped; he was pink-faced but grinning._ It was the first time you’d ever actually spoken to me.)_

_Your place…?_ Panic reached into Fíli’s guts and squeezed. Hard. _You, you mean be the MODEL?_

_Uh, YEAH. _Kíli snorted, though whether with impatience or congestion, it couldn’t be determined.

_But… but it’s Wednesday. Extended-pose night, _hissed Fíli, aghast. _A whole hour. _

_You cad do id! Gala won’t care if you keep your clodes on._

_No! No that’s… Can’t YOU do it with YOUR clothes on? _Not the world’s most sensitive response, Fíli knew, but in that moment, desperation had taken the wheel. Not to mention the fact that he and Kíli were discussing which of them should strip fucking _nude._

_I can’d do id ad ALL,_ Kíli whimpered, piteous. _I look ad feel like SHID. Every bode id by BODY hurds. I wouldid eved have CUB except…_ He held out his hands to Fíli, sketching a broken outline around him.

_(Did you really drag yourself out of bed for me? _Fíli knew the answer, but asking is part of their ritual.

Kíli invariably smiles. _I knew what would make me well.)_

Small and pleading: _Please, Fíli? Please? For be?_

Four hours’ sleep, three ventis (five sugars each, plus a glutton’s dose of cream), eight fresh canvases stretched and gessoed and laid to dry, and one hot pretzel eaten six hours ago all instantly chorused, _No, no way, it’s insane, don’t you dare._ But trapped between insomnia and sugarcrash, Fíli could only agree with one voice at a time. And Kíli had _spoken_ to him. Kíli had called him by name. Kíli had begged, _Please, for me?..._

And so Fíli found himself perched fully-clothed on a café stool _(why the stool; why?)_ leaning back with both hands gripping the seat behind him _(FUCK my arms hurt)_ and a single unseen droplet of sweat traveling down his spine, watching helplessly as Kíli _(fuck no what are you FUCK NO NO)_ leafed through his drawing pad.

_(I had nothing else to do,_ asserts Kíli, an excuse Fíli has never bought for a minute_. And I told you to pick a spot on the wall to focus on. I didn’t say focus on ME.)_

Kíli’s expression went from gleeful to startled to sober. Carefully, so as not attract roving eyes, he moved to the back row – staying directly, maybe even deliberately in Fíli’s line of sight – and continued flipping. It was obvious when he came to _That Sketch._ He studied it, laid the pad aside, then studied its creator. The fixity of his stare was terrifying.

Fíli knew he mustn’t react, not until Gala ended the session. So for forty-one more minutes, he gazed unflinchingly at his fate. He tried to play Strider’s fragmentation game, breaking Kíli’s face down into parts. One eye, the other; a nose, a mouth, a hairline… But it was no use. Not when Kíli looked at him with such… what? Not disgust… Empathy? Sympathy? Just plain pity?

Hell is not eternity, Fíli discovered that evening. Hell is forty-one minutes long and not a second less.

_Time_, called Gala.

Fíli vaulted off the chair, snatched up his portfolio and coat without looking at Kíli, and bolted into the night.

* * *

The next two weeks were a maelstrom.

Strider had pieces in three different group shows in three different boroughs, all opening on the same weekend; each demanded his presence for the opening, where the same boring people would peddle the same boring chit-chat, wine in hand. The preliminary maquettes for the LaMaMa set designs had been shipped back with notations _(less of THIS, more of THAT)_ from the director. On top of all this, only five months remained on the clock before the Bushwick show, for which Strider had to paint at least three new works for makeweight.

Fíli entered the fray at high speed. There were canvases to be wrapped and delivered, supplies to be ordered and inventoried, more canvases to be stretched and prepped... so much work, so little time to think.

Thank god.

But Strider’s city-boy radar for danger picked up a crisis on the horizon. His assistant’s brooding silence and feverish pace boded ill for labor relations. The obvious solution was to drag him home to Hoboken.

Strider’s wife Miel took a dim view of artists starving for art’s sake. She plied Fíli with homely, rib-sticking fare: BLTs, coleslaw, baked mac, iced tea sweetened with frozen lemonade from a can. He attacked his food like a stray waif while Strider and Miel exchanged swift, wise glances over his bent head.

_He’s like a Dickens orphan,_ Miel whispered to her husband in the kitchen as she took a pan of baked apples out of the oven. _Something’s off since the last time I saw him._

Strider traced a heart in the air, then clutched his chest as though skewered by a well-aimed arrow. He, like Kíli, had stolen a peek at Fíli’s drawing pad. Of course it’s wrong, but a mentor takes an _interest_, okay?

After dessert Miel excavated a jigsaw puzzle from the coat closet and threw couch pillows down on the floor for all to sit on. They whiled away the rest of the evening drinking beer and piecing together Big Ben At Sunset.

_Hey, kid,_ Strider mumbled as Fíli wrestled with his coat at parting time. _You been doing a great job, really walking the tightrope lately— we both have. I’m thinking about banging in sick tomorrow. Whyncha take a day yourself, okay? Sleep. Or hey, go to drawing class! Gotta keep that pump primed._

_Okay,_ said Fíli.

_Swear?_ Strider bent down to make Fíli look him in the eye.

_Yeah, I swear._

* * *

The memory of Miel’s cooking has made Fíli and Kíli hungry. They’ve just rolled out of bed in search of a remedy.

_We could make a big pot of oatmeal, _offers Fíli, poking around in their tiny, rather understocked pantry. _We’ve got dried figs to put in. Pistachios, too, but we’d have to shell them._

_Ugh. That’s work._ Kíli’s sitting backwards in a kitchen chair, his cotton yukata gaping open, framing a grove of chest fur. He stretches his legs one at a time, toes pointed, then stands up and deep-bends forward over the chair back, blatantly pushing his ass out.

Fíli snickers. _Are you _sure_ you’re not a stripper?_

_Shush. I’m flexing._ Mischievous: _I need_ protein. _Do we have any eggs?_

_Two, but no butter, so we’d have to soft-boil them. And hot-dog buns. I guess I can toast them over the stove…_

_More WORK._ Kíli straightens up, turns his feet out ballet-style, then dips down into a Kali pose, head held high and lordly, ass hovering just above the chair seat. _Let’s just eat everything raw. Crack the eggs directly into our mouths—_

_Oatmeal it is._

They eat sitting hip to hip on the love seat; there may not be room for a couch, but neither is there any battling for space. On days like this, with rivulets of cold rain chasing each other down the windowpanes, it’s a pleasure to have to squeeze in. For some people, this lack of elbow room might translate as poverty. For Fíli and Kíli it amounts to unimaginable treasure—given what they had to gamble to win it.

* * *

Heading to Gala’s school – Fíli from the corner of Hester and Essex, Kíli from the Manny Cantor Center on East Broadway – each young man mulled over how to reveal the tangled-up contents of their hearts. Had one walked slower, or the other faster, they might have found themselves on opposite sides of a crosswalk, staring at fate together. But Kíli’s long legs carried him more rapidly—not that he was hurrying. No, not that.

_Twenty minutes early! _Gala sniped._ I’d ask if your watch was broken if I thought you knew what one was. And what the hell are you all dressed up for? Your job’s to take your clothes OFF!_

The fact that he didn’t back-sass only sharpened her suspicion.

Fíli had spent the afternoon reconnoitering the neighborhood, scoping out likely places to invite Kíli for an _après_-sketch meal. For two weeks he’d been like the proverbial frog in a pot of water, paralyzed by fatalism as his future came to the boil. Now he felt less inclined to accept failure as his incontrovertible destiny. Strider’s gift of free time had reset his coordinates. Tonight – if everything went as his anxious, hopeful heart wished – the all-night _taqueria_ would transform into a confessional.

_If not_, he reassured himself, _at least I’ll know where to find the nearest bar._

Great hopes go hand in hand with even greater apprehensions. But as soon as Fili took his usual seat, a battered sketchbook landed in his lap. He looked up, mouth agape, but Kíli was already striding away across the floorboards, robe fluttering in his wake.

_He’s early— no,_ thought Fíli. _No. He’s already changed into his robe. He’s been here for a while._ Awe dawned like a sunburst. _He’s been here waiting, waiting for me._

_Don’t look. Don’t turn around,_ Kíli told himself. _Don’t._

Laying his hand flat on the sketchbook cover, Fíli closed his eyes— not to imagine what was inside it; in some arcane way he already knew what he would find.

He did not draw Kíli that night. It was enough to sit and simply look at him, at his sketchbook, throughout which tender portraits of Fíli appeared over and over, all of them drawn (just like Fíli’s of Kíli) entirely from memory.

* * *

_And after that, the _taqueria_. God, we could hardly talk to each other, let alone eat._

_I know! It was all so real and raw; we were so afraid of bruising one another. I’m glad we had our pencils and sketchbooks. We could share without having to converse._

_And then in the street afterward, when we _did_ start talking! The only words I managed to get out were “Would you like to…?” And you screamed “YES!”_

_I thought you were inviting me home. _

_I was. Just… not at that moment._

_I was so embarrassed. If there had been an open manhole nearby, I would have fucking jumped into it and disappeared forever._

_Then you wouldn’t have been able to come to morning tea. But you were blushing, and that was nice. Your lips were quite warm. Or maybe mine were cold; it was raining. Was it a chilly kiss?_

_Not at all; just… surprisingly formal. Demure. After so many weeks of watching you sashay around Gala’s classroom, I would never have guessed for a single minute that you would be a bashful flower underneath._

_That’s me; old-fashioned. No tongue on a first date. But if you treat me to tacos tonight, I promise I’ll hold your hand._

* * *

Breakfast is over; time for Sunday drawing. It’s Fíli’s turn this week. _On the bed,_ he demands of his partner. _Strip it, and yourself._

Their bed’s an old steel-frame Army number with springs that squeal raucously with every move. It’s really only intended for one, but it fits the space, and its occupants sleep pretzeled together _sans_ complaint. On a recent expedition to the basement, Kíli’s uncle Thorin – a man after Fíli’s own heart, obviously – salvaged an antique wrought-iron bedstead, rust-coated but of sturdy Durin make. He’s promised to restore it in time for their second anniversary.

_(Think we’ll last that long?_ Kíli teases.

_We’d better, _Fíli replies. _That bed is goddamn gorgeous.)_

_ [ ](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/179171/179171_original.png) _

Their present bed is goddamn gorgeous, too, with Kíli draped across it. He’s pulled up the corners of the fitted bottom sheet so that the mattress ticking shows; now he lies flat on his back, arms above head, bottom bed rail pressing into his naked thighs. Dissatisfied with the perspective and concerned about muscle strain, Fíli fetches a milk crate and upends it for Kíli’s feet to rest on. He drags a kitchen chair to the open doorway – there’s no space to actually sit _in_ the room – and settles upon it, pad in hand. _You warm enough, baby?_

_I’m fine. Is the light okay?_

_Good. Just the right ratio of highlight and shadow—but we’d better work fast before we lose it._

The room’s solitary window looks out on the airshaft, which brightens only at midday before sliding back into blue gloom. At least their building’s of New Law vintage; the pre-1900 airshafts were so narrow you could pass a cup of sugar across to a neighbor without spilling a grain.

But Kíli isn’t doling out any sugar today. He holds the pose at first, his face a veritable ikon of choirboy virtue. But then the thighs start moving apart ever so slowly, a bare millimeter at a time, and by the time Fíli’s caught on, his drawing’s in danger of heading off in a radical new direction.

_Stop it, you._

_Stop what?_

_You know._

The knees come back up, but the mischief’s not nearly finished. On the next round, Fíli catches Kíli slyly blowing on his own erect nipple as if it were a birthday candle. 

_What?! I have an itch; it’s making me crazy, _he gripes._ I want to rub it, but I’m not allowed to move, so what can I do? _A twitch of lip._ Besides ask you._

At this point, Fíli can do one of three things. He can give in, lose the fight, lose the light, let Kíli win. He can say, _Hold the pose, I’ll be right back,_ knowing that Kíli’s competitive spirit won’t permit him to budge. Fíli can run down to the bodega for coffee and buttered rolls and stroll back in to find Kíli flustered and furious— but still completely _en position_, in which case Fíli comes out the victor. 

Or he can resort to the strategy they both like best.

_Of course you can ask, _he calmly tells Kíli, busying himself with a bit of flat-pencil shading. _But I’m in the middle of a really complicated part, and if I stop, I’ll lose my momentum._ _Besides, I’m not so certain I’d do you any good. _He fixes Kíli with a stern look. _I mean, _sure_, it would _feel_ good if I came over there… _

Kíli’s lips are already beginning to quiver; he’s fighting off the urge to move. Being touched while ordered to stay still is challenging. _Not_ being touched while ordered to stay still is an exquisite torment.

_…but if I do it _once_, you’ll only need me to do it _again._ And I can’t let you do it _yourself_ because…_ A long-suffering sigh. _Because we both know you’re not allowed to move while I’m working. So it looks as though our hands are tied. Yours more than mine, of course. _A pause. _Do you _need_ them tied? Because if I thought it would _help_ you—_

Kíli still has not moved an inch, but at least one part of him has broken the pose. _Bastard—! _he growls through clenched teeth, but Fíli only chuckles and chooses another pencil.

The finished drawing will hang over the restored wrought-iron bedstead; for decency’s sake, Kíli will cover it with a silk scarf when company comes over.

He is, after all, the resident bashful flower.

* * *

There is another drawing they keep private. Like their sketchbooks and drawing pads of the period, it is a document of their history, a love missive. Kíli drew it the day Fíli came for tea and beheld his future home for the first time.

Viewed from outside, Kíli’s building is clearly not a palace. An archetypal red brick tenement, four windows wide and five storeys high, shoe-repair shopfront on the ground floor, fire escape zigzagging down the façade like iron lightning. Kíli loves it with the ferocity of one born and cradled within its chipped plaster walls. Which he was.

On his first visit, Fíli looked around agog. _You _own _this?_

_No. My mom and uncle do._ Kili pulled out a kitchen chair and gestured Fili to sit. _It’s belonged to our family, oh… generations going back and back and back._

_How many?_

Kíli filled a kettle at the ancient kitchen tap. _Well… we’ve been here a hundred and sixty years. We came as refugees from the old country, dirt-poor and hungry for a chance. At first we shoed horses and forged tools by hand. My third-great-grandparents built the foundry, and when the time was right, they bought property._ He placed the kettle on the stove – a tiny vintage Wedgwood enameled mint and white, almost a doll’s appliance – and struck a match to light the burner_. What would you like? I have Assam, Earl Grey, Bengal Spice—_

_That last sounds good, please._ Fíli relaxed and took in his surroundings. However tiny, the kitchen glowed with warmth and cheer. Its quaint old fittings had not been curated for effect; they simply came with the place, like Kíli himself.

_So you were born here?_ he nudged.

Kíli hooked his foot around the leg of another chair and pulled it out to sit on. _I was. One of many Durins to have been, and many yet to come._

(Durin._ Why does that name sound familiar?)_

Intuitive Kíli answered his guest’s unspoken thought offhandedly, as if mind-reading was no special trick. _You drew one of our tools. I saw it in your sketchbook— the C-clamp. Our name’s on it. _He reads off an invisible marquee:_ “Durin Forge & Foundry Est. 1889.”_

_Whoa. What are the odds?_

_Pretty good, given that we made about a jillion of them—but they’re not all. During the Depression we cast building plaques and bas-reliefs for the Federal Art Project. You know the Farinsson mural in the Greenleaf Building on Fifth, the big one in the lobby? That was my great-grandfather’s work,_ Kíli told Fíli proudly. _I mean, Gróin Farinsson designed it. But a Durin poured it. We’ve been in art ever since—us and our tools._ His eyes, so often piercing, look like velvet in this light. _Do you want the five-cent tour while our water boils? I want you to see the rest of my house._

That Kíli calls it _his house_ charms Fíli even now that it’s _their_ house. It’s more than an apartment, a building, a legacy. It’s a nest, all warm colors and cozy worn-out furniture. It’s a diorama draped with tiny white string lights and faded silk scarves, a treasure chest overflowing with marbles and buttons and dice in canning jars and little altars in every corner. It’s a tiny rainforest burgeoning with houseplants, and the way Kíli introduces them to people melts Fíli even more.

_This one, the Christmas cactus here, that’s Tzipora. Tzipora’s mother Agnetha belongs to my mother, and before that to her mother, and before that to _her_ mother. You should see Agnetha; she’s like a tree, with bark and everything. Every Durin gets a rootling from her to grow, but Uncle Thorin’s had two because he left the first one out on the fire escape during a cold snap…_

And then there’s Kíli’s art, for which the parlor serves as both studio and showcase. On little sheets of copper and tin, in fabulous detail, he paints brightly-colored miniature _retablos _of tenement saints: Jacob Riis, Dorothy Day, the nameless girls of the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire. Fíli handled each one gingerly, as if wearing a curator’s snow-white archival gloves.

_You like?_ inquired Kíli.

_I like, _Fíli affirmed. Yet for all the wonder he felt, a thread of fear seeped in.

Anyone meeting Kíli for the first time in those days would have been forgiven for assuming that he, and not Fili, was the hot mess. But here, Kíli held himself differently. Here, he was home and secure, a beautifully irregular heirloom pearl held gently and lovingly within an ancestral shell. Understanding this (and forever prey to his own self-doubts), Fíli believed himself out of place, an interloper to a fairytale. He – with his bathtub bed head and iffy habits and thoroughly meshuggeneh personal life – might by his very presence disrupt the magic of this place and dislodge its cherished son from rightful peace—

_(Instead you took me in, _he tells Kíli now. _I had no idea I’d fit._

_I did,_ replies Kíli. _I saw you would the minute I introduced you to Tzipora. You and she got along so well.)_

—but the kettle’s shrilling dissolved that unpleasant train of thought.

As he arranged freshly sliced and buttered caraway rye bread on a plate and readied their mugs (one scarlet, one bright blue, both with mended handles) Kíli spoke casually without turning around: _How about I draw you? After tea, I mean. You’ll be all warm inside, so you won’t mind being naked._

* * *

_Can’t people across the way see me?_

Fíli hovered uncertainly in the doorway, swathed in a faded blue cotton _yukata_ Kíli had tossed his way. He’d left his own clothes draped neatly over end of Kíli’s plain iron bedframe and his work boots standing guard nearby, completely unaware that they would find a permanent home there.

Kíli glanced up from sharpening his pencils with a small whittler’s knife. His eyes glittered with mischief. _Only if they’re looking. Anyway, I need the light._

They began with simple gestural poses for which Fíli could leave the robe on. He leaned against the window casing, bracing himself on one hand; crouched to look at the titles on Kíli’s bookshelf (_Quimby the Mouse, The Natural Way to Draw, A.G. Rizzoli: Architect of Magnificent Visions; Arcimboldo; Learning to Love You More); _laced his hands behind his neck and twisted to look at the opposite corner—all in breath-held silence.

Now a longer pose: _contrapposto_ with a slight lean-back, chin lifted, throat exposed, robe slipping down to the elbows, fingers skimming the robe tie at waist level. Fili trained his eye on a ceiling paint crackle and yawned to relax his face muscles.

Kíli spoke softly so as not to startle his model. _Where are you from? How did you end up here?_

_South Jersey, way down in the pines. I wanted out, like most of us do, and art… well, it’s not exactly a round-trip ticket. If it works out, you never go back._ Fíli paused. _I’ve tried really hard, done whatever needed doing, to not to go back. I’ve worked so many weird jobs, I’ve lost count._

_What was the weirdest?_

_Live-in nanny. Worst two weeks of my life._

Kíli’s laugh is a carillon of deep-pitched bells. _I bet you wished you were back in South Jersey then._

Silence for a time, broken only by pencil scratching. Then, from Kíli: _Could you turn? Same pose, but from the back—and pull your hair over one shoulder?_

Fíli complied. He felt more at ease now, with Kíli, with this place, with the experience of standing half-clad before a penetrating eye. Sunlight from the window spilled over his chest and stomach; Kíli’s gaze swept over his shoulders. He felt caressed on all sides.

The whoosh and crackle of a sketchpad page being flipped; the start of a new chapter.

_There’s a stool by the radiator,_ murmured Kíli. _Sit facing me, however you’re most comfortable._ He cleared his throat. _You can lose the robe, if you want._

[](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/179690/179690_original.png)It had not occurred to Fíli that Kíli might be just as nervous as him for this unveiling to happen. 

Threadbare cotton whispered over his skin en route to the floor, a pool of blue for him to step free of. He mounted the stool – sitting as far back on the seat as possible this time, proof of a lesson learned – and gripped the rim between his legs with both hands to anchor himself—

_Leave your hands there. I like it,_ said Kíli. _It makes you look shy._

_I won’t always be that way, _Fíli announced, and that was the truth.

Kíli fell silent, looking at him. When he finally spoke again, his voice was unexpectedly fragile. _I want to touch you so much_.

_You will. _The certainty of his own words made Fíli come out in goosebumps from head to toe. _I promise you will. But draw me first._

So commenced the long session. In a way, it has yet to end.

From this point, certain things became inevitable. They did speak heart to heart— that afternoon, that night, the next day and the next. They touched, and kept touching. 

Two weeks passed, most of it spent in Kíli’s postage-stamp-sized bedroom. Then Kíli demanded to see Fíli’s bedroom, which brought an end to his tenancy in the bathtub. It swiftly returned to its status as an abandoned piece of rubble in an old, decommissioned bathroom six floors up.

But not for long.

With the success of both the LaMaMa show and Strider’s Bushwick exhibit, Strider reckoned he could afford to double his staff. The new kid Ori hailed from some godforsaken boondock in central Ohio and had a partial scholarship to Pratt. In honor of his “graduation”, Strider let Fíli do the honors.

_The tap runs. _Fíli told Ori._ Radiator works great in the winter. It’s not much, but the bathtub is more comfortable than you’d think._

* * *

It’s just like drawing class— everyone behind the taqueria counter cheering _KEEEEE-LEEEE!_ Only now it’s followed by _FEEEEE-LEEEE!_— as well it should.

They order their usual, _tacos al carbon_ and bottled sodas (pink guava for Kíli, tamarind for Fíli). Their favorite spot by the window is taken, so they grab a booth and sit holding hands across the faux-granite melamine.

Kíli’s wearing his daisy hair clips, a tribute of sorts to that night two years ago, when it seemed that some benevolent force had parted the entire city like an ocean so that they could walk directly into each other’s arms. He sticks a sprig of cilantro in the gap between his front teeth and twirls it. Fíli cracks up just looking at him. There’s no need to speak, but much laughter to share.

Far out ahead in front of them, opportunity stretches like a freeway. Beyond the studio, the class room, maybe even the city itself, life and love and success lie in wait. But tonight, the world feels perfect just as it is, everything meshing like the gears and screws of Fíli’s beloved typewriter, no longer mute but capable of writing a future.

* * *


End file.
